“Is this the hill you’re going to die on, Chloe?” Boy, if I had a quarter for every time someone asked me that. And then another for every time I did, in fact, die on said hill…well, I would have to drop “starving” from my artist bio.
The Instagram-worthy eyebrows of my bestie challenge me to stand behind today’s bold statement—that I prefer to be alone.
My brain frantically rummages through my extensive collection of history facts, trying to find one that applies to modern times. Since women can no longer be arrested or considered a prostitute for going on a date, I’m not sure how to answer Charlotte’s question in a way that makes it believable. No one wants to die on a hill alone, do they? Unfortunately, I may. Unlike me, most twenty-six-year-olds are pro-actively seeking their other half, succumbing to their biological clocks which are ticking down the tragic seconds until they die...not alone.
“What’s wrong with being a lone wolf?” is all I can come up with.
“Nothing. But...humans aren’t wired to be alone. We’re pack animals by nature.” Narrowed brown eyes pin me to the sofa. “Plus, I know why you’re choosing to not date anyone, so it’s my duty, as your best friend, to give you a nudge in the right direction.” With a whirl of her chair, she turns back to the computer she’s convinced holds my future partner.
I drain my second glass of Merlot and slump into the leather of Charlotte’s couch, silently asking it to swallow me whole so I won’t have to go through with her outlandish idea of finding me a man via dating app. When I arrived at Charlotte’s place, I had no idea this was an intervention of sorts. This visit was supposed to be chilling with wine and flower shopping for Charlotte’s upcoming wedding. Instead, I’ve been bamboozled with an online matchmaking site that will have men sending a rock, if they’re interested in me. Not the kind on Charlotte’s finger, a poorly drawn stone rock to symbolize the building of a solid foundation.
How can I take this seriously when I’m not impressed with their branding?
“Granny Mae would not approve of this,” I counter, since history has failed to provide me with an adequate defense. “You know how she feels about the internet.” Maybe I’m not playing fair using Charlotte’s adoration of my grandmother and her questionable southern charm, but desperate times call for desperate measures, so I continue, “Full of damn trolls I believe were her exact words.”
Charlotte gasps at my underhanded attempt to thwart her plan, but is undeterred. “Granny Mae is in North Carolina. Probably making biscuits, with her sweet little granny hands. Besides, she’ll never have to know how you met the love of your life. You’ll blow her bonnet off when you go home to visit.” She points to the website with smiling people on the screen. “Look, it’s called FriendsOfFriends, so that’s respectable. F-O-F. And you know what that O is for!”
“Of?”
Charlotte glances over her shoulder at me. “Wow, this is why you never get laid.”
Never is a bit harsh. It’s not like I’ve intentionally chosen to be celibate for years. Well, maybe I have, but there’s no time to respond with more grannyisms about the dangers of social media, because the front door opens and in walks the reason for my nun-like state and Charlotte’s insistence that I give this a try.
“What’s up, ladies?” Austin, Charlotte’s roommate extraordinaire, drawls in his husky timbre that warms my wine and brings the fine hairs on the nape of my neck to attention.
“Hey,” I say, sitting a bit straighter. “How was work?”
“Busy.” He deposits a white to-go box on the counter separating the kitchen and living room. “What do you have for me today, Chloe?”
For a moment, I can’t think. He truly is extraordinary, in an understated way. Dark eyes, dark hair, and a dark sense of humor. He’s the holy trinity in my book. But, like all good things, he’s taken. So I can only mope and admire his tall frame from atop my lonely dying-hill.
“Forks were once thought to be sacrilegious,” I finally say.
He chuckles and leans against the counter, crossing his arms. “Why is that?”
“When they were introduced in the 11th century, they were considered artificial hands and as such, an offense to God.”
“Amazing. You never disappoint me, Chloe.” And his amusement at my gems of worthless knowledge never disappoints me. “I’ve got something for you, too. A customer ordered fettuccine Alfredo, and while I was making it, they canceled due to carb-guilt.” He winks at me. “I know you love to eat, so I brought it home for you.”
Three concerns immediately present themselves.
1. The fact that he expected me to be here is troublesome. For someone who wants to be alone, I’m always hanging out here to avoid being alone. Maybe I do need a date.
2. Austin is a phenomenal chef, so although I hate being predictable, I’ll take the fettuccine. Seems fair. He feeds me delicious pasta, and I feed him useless history facts.
3. He cannot see what we are doing. Sure, he’s got a girlfriend, but do I want him to think I’m off the table? Not that I’m on the table. But I might be? Some day?
“Thank you. That was really thoughtful.” Faster than Austin can dice an onion, I spring from the couch and cross to Charlotte’s desk, positioning myself to block the screen.
He ambles closer, bringing the seductive scent of garlic with him. “What are you—”
“It’s lady underwear stuff,” I half shout, at the same time Charlotte says, “Setting up a dating app.”
Austin’s eyes volley between us.
“A dating app…for Charlotte,” I amend. This is not my finest cover-up.
He stops a few feet from my raised hand and gives me side-eye. “Charlotte’s engaged.”
“She may need a fling.” I shrug. “Don’t shame her sexual needs.”
“I do need to know I’m still desirable,” Charlotte adds, because besties roll with stuff like this. “I’m a modern gal in a post-modern world, bud.”
He grazes his bottom lip with a peek of white teeth, and then, like the laid-back guy he is, lets it go. “Okay Keep your secrets. I’m going to shower and nap before I meet Lucy.”
Right. Lucy. The totally put-together new girlfriend with a successful career in public relations.
“Let me know how you like the fettuccine,” he calls on his way out of the room.
When he’s disappeared down the hallway, Charlotte whispers, “You know, you’re doing this to get over him. So it’s okay if he knows. Because…you’re moving on?”
“Shhhh. He doesn’t know about my crush. And never will. Because you would never, ever tell him, upon pain of death. Right?”
“I’m offended. Girl Code is more sacred than the cross.”
“You’re Jewish.”
“It’s the principle.”
“Well, I’m already nervous enough about going out with strangers, I don’t need him making me more nervous. He’ll have me convinced they’re all serial killers.”
Actually, I don’t really need convincing on that part. Granny Mae convinced me years ago.
“They’re hardly strangers,” Charlotte reassures. “They’re friends of friends on your social media. Who are going to give you an O—”
“Stop, please,” I cut her off. “I need to eat my feelings with cream sauce. Want some?”
“I do, but no. I have a fitting for my wedding dress soon.”
See, Charlotte doesn’t understand what it’s like to put yourself on the internet. She’s been with her man since high school. If only my high school boyfriend hadn’t been a jerk, I could be in Charlotte’s position. Thanks for nothing, Josh. Ten minutes later, when I’ve settled into a chair next to Charlotte with warmed pasta—and more wine—Austin reappears. “How is it?”
“Delicious, as usual.” Even if it’s now stuck in my throat at the sight of his damp, rumpled hair.
“Good. I’m heading over to Lucy’s now, because she wants to nap with me.”
A nap date. Could life be more unfair? I love naps.
Austin’s crooked grin before he leaves is beguiling, and really, it’s best I do this dating thing because no one should be so enamored with the smile of one of their best friends.
“Why can’t all men be like Austin?” I murmur, twirling fettuccine in an endless spiral on my fork.
“They can be, Chloe.” Charlotte places a hand on my knee. “You’re so focused on the tree, you can’t see the forest. It’s time to say timber.”
Maybe it’s the alcohol lowering my defenses, but she’s right. Austin is one of my best friends. He brings me unexpected meals and laughs at my history trivia, but that’s as far as it goes. “Let’s do this, before I change my mind.”
She smiles. “While you were focused on Austin’s…noodle,” I choke briefly, “I set up the account with your email. Your password is forkme.” Charlotte’s pink nails fly across the keyboard and navigate to the profile page. “First, we need a cute picture to entice the forest. Got any selfies?”
“No. I’m not a selfie taker. I’m a meme saver.”
She lifts her phone and aims it at me. “Smile.”
This is happening too fast. Although I’m only half invested, I’d like to at least look like I didn’t crawl out of a hole. She gives me a few minutes to release my hair from its messy bun, remove a stray peppercorn from my incisor, and apply a bit of lip gloss. After a few awkward poses, trying to get that “oh, you caught me off guard” natural look down, my face smiles back at me on the monitor.
In the age of Photoshop and Facetune, I hope I win points for my non-filtered photo. I’ve never considered myself vain, but it’s impossible not to critique myself and find every flaw. How many strangers will see this image and based on it, decide whether they’d have sex with me? FriendsOfFriends needs a disclaimer box where I can explain that I hibernate in the winter, but now that it’s spring, I shaved my legs and made an appointment for fresh highlights.
“Should we take another?” I ask. Perhaps one Charlotte poses for.
“No. It’s perfect. You look like the girl next door.” She gives me the reassuring statistic that women who post a photo are twice as likely to get a response and tabs to the next section. “Job.”
I retrieve the wine and pour us each a generous serving. “Can we put what I’m supposed to be doing?”
“There’s nothing wrong with being a potter. Not everyone is qualified to make pottery.”
“Yes, this is true.” But I’m supposed to be a director at an art museum, selling my own art on the side. And calling “teaching children how to make wobbly cups at It’s Clay Time” being a potter is overly kind. That unfulfilled dream is the entire reason I picked Boulder for college and am still here in Colorado. Oh, well. Van Gogh sold one painting during his lifetime, so there’s still hope for me if I do croak on my hill. Being a pottery teacher may not be my dream, but neither is this dating site. As we’ve established, we can’t always get what we want. “Okay, next.”
“What’s Your Idea of a Perfect Date?” Charlotte laughs. “Didn’t you once say the perfect date was going to Nathan’s Hot-Dog Eating Contest?”
“That was before I knew nap dates existed. Plus, I was hungry when I said it. And anyway, you still think a Marilyn Manson concert is a good place to meet guys.”
We continue on, filling in details, and this is all so self-esteem draining. There’s a whole “Get To Know Me” section and what if no one is charmed by my fascination with tiny houses and passion for art? And on the flip side, what if I’m not charmed by any of them? Despite the churning in my belly, we continue on, until the profile is complete.
Charlotte looks over at me with her finger hovering on the enter key. “You ready to publish?”
“No.” Right now, my hill doesn’t seem so bad.
“Granny Mae would say it’s spring, the perfect time to plant some seeds and see what grows.”
“She’d also be planting those seeds to annoy her neighbor. Granny Mae is no angel.”
“And that’s why I love her.”
With a gleam in her eyes, Charlotte clicks submit.
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